Twice
by Joodiff
Summary: Eve celebrates her birthday, Grace embraces the future, and Boyd finds out that things don't always go quite the way he intended... T-rated for language. Complete. Birthday present for Got Tea and missDuncan. Enjoy!
**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing.

 _ **April 2016** \- Happy birthday to Got Tea and missDuncan! :) xx_

* * *

 **Twice**

by Joodiff

* * *

 _Oh, thank God,_ Grace thinks, catching sight of the party's newest arrival through the tight throng of people packed into what is, after all, a fairly small space. After so much solicitous attention and downright fussing from at least some of her fellow guests, she can't think of anything more therapeutic than a substantial dose of pragmatic gruffness. Ensconced on a small but very comfortable leather sofa positioned at an angle to the sliding glass doors that lead out onto the smart apartment's small balcony, she watches through the ever-shifting gaps as Boyd greets their hostess, his body language telling her just how uneasy he is. He won't stay long, she knows, and she suspects Eve's every bit as aware of it as she is. Cornered and caught completely unawares by all accounts, Boyd couldn't do much but accept the unexpected invitation, and she's fairly sure that what she's witnessing now is a grudging exercise in damage limitation. Show his face, have a drink or two, then quickly and quietly disappear. Really, he's uncharacteristically predictable when it comes to such things, and that thought alone makes Grace smile.

Staying away from the party herself hadn't been an option. Eve had made that very clear. Gently, kindly, but very, very firmly. Now, of course, despite the endless amount of exaggerated concern that's been directed at her ever since her arrival, she's glad she ceded to all the gentle but insistent bullying that came from various directions. Life goes on, and what greater proof than attending a small but lively birthday celebration, complete with laughter, music and an already impressive thick swirl of cigarette smoke. Her oncologist wouldn't be pleased if he knew. Screw him, as Boyd might say. Screw cancer, too, and its malevolent habit of sometimes creeping back for another assault instead of obediently staying banished forever.

Suitably dressed for the occasion, Boyd nonetheless looks slightly and rather delightfully dishevelled, she notices, still focusing on him whenever she can. Suspiciously like a man who's driven halfway across London in an elderly and incredibly impractical open-top sports car instead of in a much more suitable sleek executive saloon. That makes her smile, too. Boyd and the gentler of his eccentricities. The last almost-decade of her life would have been so much duller without them. And without _him_ , of course. She's watched him mellow a little over the years, but there's still a striking… individuality… about him that she loves. _Likes_. Not loves. No. Love is not a safe word to use in connection with Peter Boyd; not now, not ever.

She loses track of him in the crowd for a moment, but then Spencer's hovering attentively over her, his helpless, hapless concern poorly-masked. It's both flattering and wearing. Yes, she tells him, as patiently as she can, she's still fine, and no, she really doesn't need anything. But thanks for asking. She wonders sometimes if it's just the word – _cancer_ – that causes such a dramatic change in the way people relate to her. That loaded word, cancer, specifically. Whether it has some sort of uncanny power not carried by equally-shattering words such as _stroke_ or _heart attack_. Cancer. The six-lettered bogeyman everyone secretly fears.

Remission. Nine letters. Much more powerful by far. To her, at least. A good word to have in one's vocabulary, an even better one to be able to use freely and with a smile.

The weight landing next to her on the sofa causes a wineglass-related near-calamity. Grace glares at her new companion, but it's entirely for effect. Really, she's absurdly pleased to see him. Deep, dark eyes regard her with enigmatic sincerity as he says, "Tut tut, Doctor Foley. Out partying whilst on sick leave? Extremely unprofessional. Someone should be told about this."

"Oh, ha ha. You're so funny," she says, equally deadpan. "How are you?"

"Fine," he replies, every bit as laconic expected. He surveys her for a moment longer before countering with, "What about you? And no bullshit."

"Fine," she tells him, still straight-faced. It's the truth, though. Thank God. Or gods. Or whatever higher powers might have been listening to all her silent pleas and prayers.

Another second or two of intense scrutiny precedes a simple nod. "Good."

It's refreshing. No other way to describe it. He cares more than most, and says much less than most. She's never treasured that more. Grace is about to speak, to offer an opinion on how the small party's proceeding when he asks, "Looking forward to your 'phased return', then?"

The emphasis he puts on the words more than adequately conveys his disgust for such modern management-speak. Old school copper, tough as the grimy London streets where he learned his trade, and just as stubbornly resistant to anything more than superficial change. In answer to his question, she grimaces. "Can't come soon enough."

The slightest twitch of a muscle in his cheek betrays his amusement. He understands. Enforced idleness doesn't suit either of them. At least one thing they have in common. Surveying his attire – casual enough but most definitely not sourced from any popular retail chain – she comments, "I don't remember the last time I saw you without a suit on."

He glances down at himself, as if faintly perplexed, then shrugs. "I guess it's been a while."

"I guess it has." Years now, probably. She's not sure if that's a depressing thought or not. They used to socialise more, she remembers, all of them.

Boyd clears his throat, an affectation she knows well. It means he's feeling more than usually uncomfortable and self-conscious about what he's about to say, but is damn well going to say it anyway. He does. "I'm sorry I haven't been to see you. It's just… you know… When someone's off sick… It's one of those ridiculous HR policy things."

"I know." She understands. Hasn't lessened the slight sting she's felt now and again at his continued and conspicuous absence, but… She emulates his shrug. "Boundaries."

"Yeah." A moment of reflective silence falls between them. Then, "How was radiotherapy?"

"Better than I feared; worse than I hoped."

"Worth it, though."

"Yes."

Stupid, stilted conversation. They've known each other for the better part of twenty years, and worked very closely together for almost half of that time, and there are still moments when they might just as well be virtual strangers. She'd find it odd if she didn't understand it. Lines long ago drawn in the sand, that sort of thing. Friendship with clearly delineated limits. Most of the time it works. Sometimes, even now, she wishes things were simpler between them. Mostly, she doesn't. She's too fond of the delicious crackle of tension in shadowy moments when it's just him and her, and all the unexplored possibilities they're both so good at ignoring.

"I hate this sort of thing," Boyd says, the words sudden and hard-edged. It takes her a moment to realise he's referring to the gathering happening around them. "Who the hell invites their boss to their birthday party?"

"I think the real party's tomorrow at some trendy club or other."

He glowers. "Don't be pedantic, Grace. You know what I mean."

"To be fair, it's probably just as awkward for Eve."

"I seriously doubt that."

"You can't leave yet, Boyd."

"I know that. Give me some credit."

Watching the assembled throng, and more to needle him than anything else, she advises, "Don't go in the bathroom."

"Dare I ask…?"

"There's an extractor fan in there. Use your imagination."

He's never been slow on the uptake. "Really? Fuck's-bloody-sake. Someone's been toking with half a dozen or more coppers present?"

"Half a dozen or more _off-duty_ coppers."

He grunts irritably, and then complains, "You could've kept that to yourself, you know, Grace. It wouldn't have killed you."

Smirking, she inquires, "Where's the fun in that?"

"There's a reason I never go rifling through your damn desk drawers looking for all the things you've hidden away, you know – I'm too bloody terrified I'm going to accidentally stumble across your stash."

Once upon a time, maybe, but then, according to long-standing rumour she definitely isn't the only one present – or even sitting on this very couch – who was a little wild in their younger days. Still, Grace can't help laughing. "Now that would be something, wouldn't it?"

"Don't go getting any ideas," Boyd warns her, only the tiniest spark of amusement dancing in his eyes betraying any hint of anything other than complete solemnity, "nowadays my blood pressure just couldn't take it."

It's hardly been forever, but she's missed him. Her infuriating, quick-tempered, occasionally deeply engaging old friend. Colleague. Boss. Whatever the hell he is. Surprising herself, she says, "I don't want to do a phased return. I just want to come back to work properly. You know – full-time. I've talked to my oncologist and – "

The response is an immediate and firm shake of the head. "No. More than my job's worth. HR would hang me out to dry, you know that."

"Unofficially, then," she prompts, hoping to edge him into exploring the possibilities. "I could just start clearing the backlog of stuff in my in-tray…"

He shakes his head again. "Nope. Not happening."

"Peter…" It's a cheap trick.

One he doesn't fall for. "Oh, _please_."

Knowing she doesn't have a choice, Grace gives in with slight, wry smile. Boyd won't be moved, she know he won't. Not on this. It's probably a good thing. No. It _is_ a good thing. Even if she is thoroughly bored at home now, and absolutely itching to be back at work. Without thinking about it, she reaches out and pats his thigh, an instinctive, friendly gesture that earns her a look that's guarded and quizzical, but a long, long way from hostile. Still, it feels… wrong. Inappropriate. Quickly pulling back her hand and trying to hide her discomfort, she says, "Spence says you've re-opened the David Lambert case…?"

"Mm."

"That's a… bold move."

Boyd winces and scratches at his beard, an unconscious act that never fails to betray sudden unease. "Don't. I've heard it all already from the Smith woman."

"I bet."

His response is so prompt that she knows he's been brooding on the matter, probably frequently, late at night, and with only a bottle of Scotch to keep him company. "Promotion's gone to her head, Grace. You should see some of the memos I've had in the last couple of weeks. Damned woman's – "

"Keep your claws safely retracted," she interrupts, "that's my advice. You really don't want to get on the wrong side of Maureen."

He snorts. "Too bloody late for that. By far."

She sighs. Loudly, for added emphasis. "I _knew_ you'd end up getting into trouble."

His grin is sudden and unexpected. And just a little bit feral. "Without you beside me to keep me on the straight and narrow, you mean?"

 _God, I've really, really missed this…_ But all she says is, "You just can't be trusted, can you, Boyd?"

"Not for a moment, Grace. Not for one damn moment."

She's about to say more when Eve joins them, her wide, unrestrained smile suggesting she's already been taking the job of celebrating her forthcoming birthday very seriously indeed. And why not?

"What are you two plotting?" she asks, the mischievous sparkle in her eyes all-too clear. "You look distinctly conspiratorial, sitting there squeezed-up together."

Grace gives her what she hopes is easily read as a warning look. A touch too much may have been unwittingly shared in recent times. Things that might have been better left unspoken, if only she hadn't been feeling quite so lonely and vulnerable, and in desperate need of someone to talk to. Someone calm and sensible. Someone just like Eve Lockhart, in fact. Not that she doesn't trust her, but…

It's Boyd who says, "Safety in numbers, Eve."

"He's too socially inept to be left on his own in situations like this," Grace explains, straight-faced.

Eve plays along, clearly amused. "Is that right?"

"She's worried I might disgrace myself," Boyd chips in.

"I see." Eve may well have had a few drinks, but there's something very shrewd in the way she looks at them, something that's not quite fully-disguised by her evident amusement. "Well, I'll leave you to it, then, shall I? Enjoy yourselves."

As their hostess retreats back into the small crowd of friends and colleagues, Boyd grumbles, "Too sharp for her own damned good, that one."

It's an intriguing statement, but not one Grace is prepared to examine too closely. Too ambiguous. Too much risk attached to trying to accurately dissect it. She draws breath to speak, and inadvertently inhales too much second-hand smoke from a nearby bystander's cigarette. It makes her cough and splutter in a far from attractive manner. She expects to be immediately and mercilessly teased, but Boyd's reaction is much more sympathetic. "You okay? Need some fresh air?"

She nods, not yet able to speak, and is more than a little surprised when he stands up and extends a hand down towards her, his intention quite clear. Not sure what else to do, she accepts the help, finds herself being eased to her feet, the strength of his grip measured but absolutely secure. She's vaguely startled by the way he apparently forgets to let go. Towed just a few steps in his wake, she halts as he fiddles with the security catch on the big sliding doors, and then she follows him out onto the tiny balcony – a limited space no more than three feet deep and eight feet long. A few neglected pot plants sit in one corner, their straggly, unkempt state testament to Eve's lack of horticultural prowess. Otherwise the balcony is empty. Boyd closes the doors behind them, cutting off the unrelenting sound of chatter, music and laughter.

"Thanks," she manages, hoarse from coughing. "Sorry about that."

He's still holding her hand. Grace doesn't know if he's aware of it, but she is. Acutely.

"Take your time," he says, gaze straying away from her to the panoramic roofscape laid out before them. Hundreds of twinkling lights, both interior and exterior. The never-ending hum of traffic. The acrid taint of exhaust fumes. London. A living, breathing city packed full of wild dreams and heart-breaking tragedies. A wondrous, addictive place.

"Boyd…?"

He seems to finally realise. At least, he releases his grip, but offers no explanation or apology. Looking straight at her, he says, "I would've come to see you, Grace. You know I would. But it was made very clear to me that it would be… inadvisable. And with things the way they are at the Yard at the moment…"

"You don't need to explain."

"I want to."

"Why?"

He doesn't give her a straight answer, just says, "You always have to ask that, don't you? With you, it's always 'why?'."

She isn't sure if he's irked by it or not. Shrugging, she counters, "Is there something wrong with that?"

Boyd places his hands on the balcony's metal railing, his attention once again seemingly all focused on what they can see of the big, bawdy city. "No. I suppose it's who we are."

"The people who ask questions?"

"Exactly." An inexplicable pause. "Who, where, how, and why."

"I've missed you." Unintentional, spontaneous, the words. Unwise, too. Maybe. Too late now. She can't, after all, unsay them.

Boyd doesn't look at her. "Absence makes the heart grow fonder, so they say."

The implied flippancy irritates her. Sharper than she intends, she says, "I wouldn't expect you to understand."

He turns his head. Just his head. The rest of his body remains eerily still. "Oh, I understand, Grace. Better than you could possibly imagine."

A strange prickle runs up and down Grace's spine, its passage quick and fleeting. Not exactly apprehension, nor anticipation. Just… something that's paradoxically intangible and yet significant. The eyes that watch her are intent and intense, ferociously intelligent in the wily, instinctive manner that's so familiar. He's not a stupid man, not at all, and perhaps that's always been part of the attraction. Not an academic, certainly, but he's quick and sharp; easily able to make sense of the abstruse patterns that so often feature in previously unsolved crimes. Not so good, maybe, at deciphering the complex thoughts and emotions of those closest to him.

 _Take my life…_ The momentous words echo in her mind again. Sometimes she thinks she will go on hearing them forever. Boyd's voice, endlessly offering himself as a willing sacrifice in her place. Endlessly, nobly, and pointlessly. Doesn't lessen the magnitude of what he was perfectly prepared to do to save her. They've never talked about it. She wonders if they ever will.

He's still gazing at her, steady and unafraid. She can't read the thoughts behind the gaze, and part of her is glad of it. Too many things that they shouldn't say, shouldn't do. Things both known and unknown. Grace shakes her head, more to herself than anything else. She says, "Boyd – "

He cuts her off with, "Don't, Grace."

"You can't possibly know what I was going to say."

"Can't I?" He releases his grip on the balcony rail, turns to face her properly. "I think you were about to say…"

…and as he tells her, Grace is astonished by just how uncannily accurate his assessment is.

-oOo-

It might be something of an embarrassing cliché, but no-one else has ever really understood her – not in the way he does. Not her parents, who were fiercely proud of her, but bewildered by her, too. Not her siblings, who had very little in common with her, and certainly not her ex-husband, who never tired of attempting to belittle her simply because he never understood anything important about her. There have been some, now and again, who've come closer than others, but Boyd… well, Boyd doesn't even seem to try, and perhaps that's what's important. Maybe he understands her on a fundamental level that has nothing to do with conscious thought. Maybe he just accepts her without trying to explain her, and finds all the comprehension he needs that way. It still fascinates her, the way he can be so utterly obtuse about everything that should be blindingly obvious, and yet fully understand, without any apparent difficulty, all the esoteric, complicated things about who and what she is that seem to escape so many of the other people in her life.

To her surprise he's still asleep, his head turned away from the thin streaks of morning light slicing through accidental gaps left between heavy curtains, and faced with such an unusual opportunity Grace is perfectly content to remain still and silent next to him, gently absorbed in the effortless way he slumbers on, more peaceful than she's ever seen him. What's going to happen when he wakes is unclear, but that's… okay. She has more reason than most to trust him, to believe wholeheartedly that he's inherently a good man, a thoroughly decent man. One who may be notoriously impulsive, but isn't given to saying things he doesn't mean.

Eve will call her later, Grace is sure of it. As sure of it as she is that they were seen out on the balcony together. Seen talking, seen arguing. Seen kissing. And most definitely seen leaving the party together. Eve will call, and there will be questions. Many, many questions. That's okay, too. Not all questions have to be fully-answered. Or answered at all, in fact.

Next to her, her companion stirs, mutters, then rolls slowly over onto his back, still somnolent. She watches, half-hypnotised by the steady rise and fall of his bare chest.

He understands her. More, it seems he somehow understands _them_ , too. It surprises her and it doesn't. Perhaps it's all been so inevitable for so long that they've both worked out everything they need to know without ever becoming fully aware of it. The truth might be more prosaic than that, of course, but if it is, Grace doesn't care.

Boyd's eyelids flicker for a brief moment, and then he opens his eyes properly, blinking against the unforgiving slivers of morning light. He looks in her direction, clearly not yet fully awake, but he doesn't seem perplexed or surprised by her presence in his bedroom, in his bed. Nor – thankfully – displeased by it. Amused by the slow, sleepy way he comes back to himself, she continues to watch him without saying a single word. Placid silence will be the very last thing he expects from her, she guesses. But, really, what is there left to say? This – whatever it is that's finally happened between them – will work, or it won't. Pragmatism, something she's most definitely learnt from him.

His voice is rough, sleep-edged, as he says, "Didn't wake up and run away at the crack of dawn, then."

She shakes her head. "I told you I wouldn't."

"God, you've got some balls, Foley."

Only Boyd, of course. Only Boyd could say such a thing at such a time – and get away with it. It appeals to her, though, to her stubborn, independent streak, and her fierce love of everything that's different, individual. Unique. Choosing to take the words at face value, she says, "I'll take that as a compliment, shall I?"

He stretches, affording her a brief and pleasant view of sharply delineated muscle before he puts his hands behind his head and settles to studying her with quiet intensity. "I should."

"I like this room," she tells him, the _non sequitur_ quite deliberate. She looks around for a moment, taking in the sleek, expensive furnishings, the clean, masculine lines that tell a very particular story about a man's man who lives alone, certainly enjoys his comforts, but has no time for clutter. It's as far removed from her own bedroom with its colourful rugs and eclectic ornaments as it's possible to get. The metaphor for their lives and personalities isn't lost on her. "It's very… calming."

"That's why you stayed? To critique my décor?"

Sensing an opportunity to startle him, Grace does just that, reaching out a quick, sure hand and tracing a swift, continuous line from the plateau of his chest down to his waist, breaking the contact just as she feels his stomach muscles contract. He gives her a thoughtful look that suggests he's rapidly re-evaluating his current situation, and not in a negative way. Trading on the silence, she stares back at him, guessing the intriguing enigma of it will pique his interest.

It does. At least, it makes him suddenly accuse, "You seduced me."

"Yes," she agrees, deciding that laughter can wait.

"Jesus Christ." Boyd shakes his head. "Just goes to show that you can never trust the quiet ones."

"To be fair," she points out, finding that she's unrepentant, "I don't remember too much resistance."

"I thought it would be… ungallant… to put up much of a fight."

"I see."

"You _seduced_ me," he says again, sounding faintly bewildered this time, but even more accusatory.

"Twice."

Hands still behind his head, Boyd doesn't argue the technicalities of her smug, single-worded statement. "Well… damn. That was _not_ the way it was supposed to go."

"Oh?"

His expression remains unreadable. "It's a long story, Grace."

They fit together, she realises. Common-sense says they shouldn't, but common-sense, just like cancer, can go screw itself. They just fit, and there's nothing at all better in the world than that. Not right here and now.

Shifting position on the bed to rest her head on his broad chest, she says, "Tell me. I like stories."

"' _Once upon a time…'_ "

His skin is warm and smooth, and the latent strength of him is both tempting and reassuring. Still, they are who they are, and some things will never change. Her retort is an acerbic, "Hilarious."

Grace doesn't hear his answering chuckle, but she definitely feels it. No question.

 _\- the end -_


End file.
